End of the Line
by Cmdr. Gen. Marasco
Summary: No one goes around embarrassing the military and politicians of the greatest nations on earth...not even Maximum Ride. For too long, the Flock has been a thorn in the sides of many people. This is the tale of the event that stopped the Flock from being that thorn, told through the eyes of one of the men there.


Maximum Ride: End of the Line

This...is the way that the world ends. Well, not for ME, anyway. Or for most people.  
Just how it ends for seven unfortunate winged troublemakers and a their random flying...I don't want to say DOG, because its not a DOG, its got FUCKING WINGS for Chief's sake. But it looks like a dog and smells like a dog. So I guess that makes it a dog.  
Dammit, lost my train of thought...right, where was I? Oh, right. The way the world ends.  
(Cue Halo theme. Love that music)  
And who am I, the narrator of these seven? Who's melodious voice comes to you from the computer like a much more awesome and straighter Cecil Palmer?  
I am Derek Styler, hacker, code cracker, computer god and electronic wizz extrodinare, resident geek and techie for the Air Force's Highly Alternative Warfare Executive. Think of me as their Stiles Stilinski...minus the stupid werewolf bullshit I mean. I don't like werewolves. I kill them. With flamethrowers. Like the one I'm carrying now.

Around me is the greatest single grouping of elite soldiers and private military operators the world has ever seen. Over there, across from me, is Captain Price and Captain MacTavish of the Special Air Service, sharing a smoke with their skull-baklava clad team-mate. Across from them, Sergeant Foley and Corporal Dunn of the Army Rangers, passing a Bud. Next to them are Delta Force Team Metal 0-1, enjoying a smoke. And over there, with the AKS-74Us under their arms, are Sergeants Resnov and Yuri, taking swigs from some vodka. Somewhere above us is a whole shit-ton of SEALS, Teams Six and Nine, commanded by Commander Mason, but they shouldn't be seen, nor needed. Not for this.  
Honestly, I'm not sure we need all of these elite soldiers either...not when we have HIM.  
He's right next to me; all 7 feet of him, muscles like steel cables, eyes like the flame from a jet going into afterburner.  
Samual Random. STALKER.  
He truly is a sight to behold...and if all goes as planned, it will be the last thing that our targets see as free people.

"People", that is. They aren't anything of the sort. They're THINGS, created with no real purpose...and now, a threat to America and the free world because they've attracted the attention of some stupid Chinese asshole and his fat-ass corporate sponsors (though considering what's coming for HIM...well...)  
They like to call themselves "The Flock"; seven random recombiants, all in their teens, and all completely USELESS.  
Maximum. Fang. Iggy. Nudge. "The Gasman". Angel. And Dylan.  
In the words of Sergeant Reznov;  
"All must be captured, for the good of the Motherland."  
Cept, you know, imagine its said with that epic, angry Communist Russian accent and followed the the cycling of a rifle bolt. No, not an M4, you stupid bastard, thats not even RIFLE, thats a CARBINE. NO, not an AK-47 either, the Russians phased those out YEARS ago...there. AK-12. That'll work.  
God sometimes I wonder why I even BOTHER...stupid civilians. You're the reason I have to go out there in the FIRST place! I have a hot foxgirl back at home who's in heat, and I have to be out HERE instead of comforting her!

Oh well...the turning point has been passed, the die is cast, and the fight is on.  
The U.N. has declared the Flock as "Tier 1 Assets" that must be "detained" at all costs. Which is why the best of the best of the world's special forces are here.  
Army Rangers. Spetznaz. SAS. SEALS. Delta Force.  
And of course HAWX.  
Overkill? Maybe. But like Stalker says...there's no kill like overkill.  
And the best part? THEY DONT KNOW ITS COMING.  
They're just up ahead, in that clearing of trees. They're hiding from someone. Or something. I don't know. Nor, honestly, do I care.  
They are there. And we will get them.

The force moves with the smoothness of mercury on linolium, bouncing from tree to tree, leapfrogging positions, covering each other as if they were all one single, ultimately trained unit. Above us, the UH-60Us whisper, engines muffled, door guns ready to rain death if necessary.  
We are phantoms in the night; well armed, well trained, lethal phantoms. Well, most of us. Some of us are Ghosts, which are a totally different thing. Oh, look, there go the Walker brothers, carrying the restaining gear. We'll need that soon enough.  
Our feet take us to the edge of the clearing. A fire is going in the middle of the dry ground, and the Flock is huddled around it. They're shivering, wings around them, huddled close. They've been on the run for weeks now, chased by everything NATO and the U.N. can throw at them. Planes, choppers, HUMVEEs with Stinger missiles, satellites, drones...  
They've run harder than they ever have in their life, and now, they're exhausted.  
Prime for capture.  
Like a great black fist, we close, soldiers moving into cover possitions. In moments, every angle is covered by a rifle or a carbine or an SMG.  
M4s, AK-12s, L86s, MP5s, P90s.  
And of course, my flamethrower.  
We've done it. We've caught them by surprise. We might not even have to-  
And then ANGEL STANDS UP AND POINTS.  
Damn. Of course, mind reader. Oh well...guess she'll have to go first.  
And go she does; in a moment, 12 nine-banger flashbang grenades are hurling her way. They go off with a resounding series of 'cracks' that illuminate the whole clearing with phosphorescent white glare, nine explosions from each grenade.  
The bird-kids stumble, disoriented, especially Iggy, who's covering his ears and rolling. Good.

Wait, Dylan's recovering...shit this cou-  
Three dozen firearms snap, crackle and pop, depending on their ammunition, and if they have a silencer or not. I hear Stalkers M4 fire right next to me, the resounding "chud chud chud" of its 5.56mm round strangely soothing. Hot brass caresses my face like the fingers of a sexy girl.  
For a moment, Dylan is flying, all on his own, no wings, no wind, caught in a great spiderweb of ammunition and vapor trails. Then he falls...or what USED to be him falls.  
There's a wet splat. Blood leaks everywhere.  
I think we were supposed to take him alive...oh well. Too late now.  
Not like he'd be any use to us anyway...he'd just distract Max. We'd probably have shot him later anyway.

Someone is screaming; I think its Nudge. Something about being "blind", and then Price comes from behind her and smashes the butt of his rifle against the back of her skull and she goes down with a squeal.  
The rest of the Flock is still stunned, trying to see, trying to move.  
They won't get far...they CAN'T. We're closing in, a black-armored, steel-lined fist, clenching around them to stifle their flame of resistance.  
The SAS blokes secure Nudge. The Russians take Fang, kicking him a couple times and shouting curses in Russian at him until he curls into a ball, at which point they dump the rest of their vodka on him.  
The Rangers have Iggy and Gazzy, tying them together with nanofiber rope and (I note, with a bit of a smile) rigging the restraints with M87 frag grenades. I'm sure the irony is not lost on the two pyro birdkids.  
Delta has Angel on lockdown...apperently, they don't need to restarin her. She's mumbling something about "black, death, blood"...must be reading their minds. I pity her. Delta's done some dirty shit...

And now, all that's left is Max. Proud leader of the Flock...no half-dazed, half sobbing, covered in blood. It looks like Dylan fell on her. Oh dear.  
Stalker strides forwards, powerful and glorious in the moonlight, muscles in his arms clenching as if he is thinking about tearing Max apart with his bare hands.  
Then he signals me forwards, and I obey. I always obey. You cannot dissobey a GOD.  
"Secure her." He growled, voice like an AMRAAM flying out of the internal bay of an F-22.  
I nod, unsure of what to do. Shit, how do I secure a birdgirl anyway?  
He seems to read my mind (probably DID, the bastards telepathic, just like Angel) and hands me some rope.  
I look down at Max, who looks up, eyes hard, still defiant...  
And I hock, spitting a huge blob of saliva directly into her right one.  
She cringes, and my fist lashes out, catching her in the nose.  
"Not so impressive now, are you!" I snarl, pulling the ropes tight as I can around her wings and her arms. I see blood start to be drawn from her shoulders. Oh dear, I hope that HURTS!  
I put my foot into her back and she falls over into the dirt, unable to move.  
"Nicely done, gentlemen!" Stalker's voice booms out. "That was one for the books!"  
Cheers erupt from the soldiers around us, and lights come on. The helicopters are moving in. Ready to retrieve our cargo, and take them away, to Chyenne Mountain, the most secure place in America.  
Not even they can escape from 2 miles of solid mountain.  
End of the line, Maximum Ride.  
And I got to be here.


End file.
